Off to the Races

I was never a horse lover at all. Frankly, up close, even the gentlest of equine beasts scares me to death. They are just so big! And those huge teeth! And the way they toss their heads and stomp! I had lots of friends in school who were crazy for horses. They collected ALL the famous horse books, from My Friend Flicka to Misty of Chincoteague to Black Beauty. They watched National Velvet every time it came on TV. Several of my buddies took riding lessons, and one even owned a horse herself. But, even surrounded by such obsession, it never rubbed off on me.

My daughters have no fear of horses—on the contrary, they have enjoyed their times on horseback. At the Delaware shore, young Rose took quite a few lessons at Windswept Stables in Lewes, and even on our recent trip to Ireland Rose considered a horseback riding adventure in Doolin (which would have instantly ruled me out).

Rose the young equestrienne

So why do I LOVE horse racing? Because I really, really do. Car racing is a total turn off in my book, alternately boring in the extreme (round and round and round and round the track), and terrifying, as the inevitable fiery collisions occur. I truly don’t know why watching horses and their jockeys compete has any appeal at all to me—it’s a mystery, akin to the mystery of why I love eating liver, but can’t abide eating kidneys.

When Steve and I were on the road touring in children’s theatre, we made it a regular practice when near Baltimore to go to the races at Pimlico. We would make our choices and place our (tiny) bets, then scream ourselves hoarse (get it?) as our horses pulled ahead, or fell behind, or went neck-and-neck to a thrilling finish. I loved the atmosphere of the race track, too. Talk about your characters! My favorites were the folks who didn’t even bother to watch the races at all, just stayed inside and watched the tote boards, and collected their cash at the end. We rarely won more than a few bucks, but for me that didn’t matter—it was the whole experience that I enjoyed. When we weren’t at the races, I devoured all the Dick Francis mystery novels. Francis, a British writer, was a former jockey himself, and penned fascinating tales of that unique world. What always struck me was how the jockeys loved their horses, who they saw almost as an extension of themselves.

Haven’t physically been to a race in years, but still I mark my calendar for the annual Triple Crown races to watch from afar. One of these years I will go to Churchill Downs in Kentucky, drink mint juleps, and hobnob with the millionaire horse owners as they cheer their big investments. Meanwhile, I will reflect with amusement on my inexplicable interests, and remember that we all have a dash of the unexpected in us—that dash which is, indeed, the spice of life.

"Fugue for Tinhorns" from "Guys and Dolls"